Oedipean Revolution
by Muse-of-Yxonomei
Summary: (repost) A man too intelligent to be good plays a wicked game with fate. (primarily TRxHP, SSxHP, briefly PPxHP and others)
1. The Hands of Fate

Disclaimer: I don't own the rights to the Harry Potter Series, which solely belong to J.K. Rowling, et al, but that hasn't stopped me from writing about them.

**Warning: This story contains the themes of sex, shota/chanslash, and male/male relationships, a.k.a. slash/yaoi. If any of these may offend you, then stop reading. If, however, you do read this, in spite of my warnings, and find it offensive, then I have to say it is your own fault. This scene is of an erotic nature, but I have attempted to write it as tastefully as my ability allows.**

**Note: I will not accept any flames, however, comments and criticisms are welcome. I am under the assumption that anyone reading this has a clear understanding of the difference between flames and criticisms so I don't have to explain it. Here are some reason why I don't accept flames: ****1) they generally include an attack on the author's character without regard to previous or future works that may or may not be in the same vein, **2)** not only are they childish, but they make the writer of them sound immature and not old enough to read the material contained herein, ****3) flames help neither the author nor the flamer to improve the work and, therefore, are not constructive, **4)** if something is so offensive as to elicit the impulse to flame then it is better forgotten and not dwelled upon, **5) **you waste time writing it and I waste time reading and then deleting it, ****6) it won't do you any good to point out my lack of scruples, morals, intelligence, sanity, etc., because not only don't I care, but I won't listen.**

Oedipean Revolution

________

Bend my will unto an untold fortune

Find beneath my feet a thousand grains of sand

Break the bar of my fragile human existence

Free the weeping martyr I've hidden

Breathe in my soul and exhale

Forge the illusionary hopes of this world

Bleed into the womb of eternity

~_Unfulfilled_, Akiko Pirscher

________

One has to wonder, if Laius had not left his son to die in a neighboring kingdom, would the Oracle's prophecy have come true? Would Oedipus still have killed his father and married his mother? Is fate an inescapable human condition, prison? I wonder this as the bars of my own fate slam down around me. I believe in making destiny, in viciously twisting the arm of fate to fulfill my ends. Yet…it seems as though by trying to move against this sometimes malevolent mistress, one simply invites her dire predictions and a rather sticky end. 

Apparently, and I do scoff at this, fate has determined that my end will be had at the hands of some young, insignificant boy. He will be the 'savior of the wizarding world' and he will be the one to defeat this epoch's greatest master of the dark arts. In his infant hands rests the incorporeal key to my everlasting destruction. Harry James Potter is destined by the capricious hand of fate to be my Paris and I his Achilles. 

My first instinct is to erase this brazen creature from the Earth. A corpse is not likely to be a threat, besides the offensive stench of decay and the vermin that feast upon such things. However, is this not the very same path that lead to Laius' downfall? Even in the muggles' vaunted _Bible has such an act merely contributed to the prophecy. The Pharaoh ordered the sons of the Hebrews to be thrown into the muddy waters of the Nile to die in order to circumvent the presage that one of the sons would be the downfall of his kingdom. _

However, what if I did not pursue this violent, and possibly detrimental, course of action? What if, instead, I did the opposite of extirpating him? What would fate have to say then? Or is my end inevitable?

No. 

I shall play this wicked game with fate, but I will play by rules that I set down. It is time to perform something of an experiment. Time to test if the 'will to purpose' truly exists. 

*          *          *

Fate watches me with calculating eyes. This entity shuffling a deck between a withered hand and a youthful hand is not the thrice crowned goddesses of fate. No, she is simply a twisted vision who enjoys a good game of chance—also known as gambling for the less cultured and obstinately ignorant. 

The foolish witch, called Lily Evans and then Lily Potter during her life, lies slumped before her squalling infant. Her green eyes are cloudy with death. The strangest expression of shock stretches her face. Honestly, you would think she would have expected this even before I uttered the curse. The human will to survive more often than not leads to the most spectacular feats of denial. She was willing to sacrifice herself for her blood-heir, but that did not mean she desired death any more than I do. 

Orphaned due to my malicious machinations, the infant screams till his wrinkled face is a patchwork of reds and whites. Small eyes screw up until only the thinnest slices of green can be seen. I point my wand at him. Now the moment has come. 

Fate's hands still. She withdraws a card and lays it face down. One grayed eyebrow quirks up. Her youthful hand lifts a corner of the battered card in preparation for its revealing. Her withered hand taps the deck impatiently. 

Laius attempted to kill his son to prevent a blood filled prophecy. Said prediction came true. Laius became his own downfall. If he had not acted in such a way, if he had kept his son…But all predictions seem to be based upon a human's need to survive, to live. Oedipus' father wanted to live. So much so that he sacrificed his only child to the elements. He loved his own existence above all else. And he died. 

I lower my wand. I will not play this part in this deadly cycle. However, as I cannot kill the boy, I cannot allow Dumbledore and his ilk to take him. What to do? What will become of the son of James and Lily Potter? What will happen to my Paris?

Fate turns the card over and it is blank.

*          *          *

"Daddy?" Holding a battered gray bunny—I suspect the creature was once white—the small boy stands uncertainly in the doorway. Large green eyes watch me uncertainly behind a pair of thick glasses, which I find particularly endearing and so have made no effort to correct his vision. The silk of his pajamas whispers sweetly as he shifts his weight. At the age of thirteen, Harry Paris Riddle—yes, I changed his name—still looks no older than seven. He barely graces five feet. 

"What is it, lovely?" The pretty boy casts a hesitant look at my severe guest and bites his pouting lower lip. 

"I had a nightmare," the boy whispers bowing his head with delightful shame. My guest barely restrains a snort of derision. I cut him a warning look only to find his face a blank mask. Yes, Severus Snape is an artful actor. He is exquisitely talented at what he does, but he is trapped by his need to survive. 

"Come here." Obediently the boy pads across the thick pile of the carpet and climbs up onto my lap. "Now tell me about your dream." I have found that Harry's soporific wanderings have a disconcertingly accurate connection to reality, most of the time. 

"It was scary." He burrows against my chest, warm fingers slipping beneath the cloth of my shirt. "I dreamt I was alone. You weren't there." Murmuring soothing words, I rub his back gently. 

"Now, lovely, you know I wouldn't leave you." He nods against my chest. 

"But you have."

"And I've always come back." Slipping a finger beneath his chin, I tilt his head up. His eyes shine with unshed tears behind the thick lenses of his glasses. "Always." With reverent delicacy I kiss his pink lips. A soft sigh tickles the inside of my mouth as he acquiesces with such pretty haste. As always, he tastes of chocolate and innocence. He is truly an endless fount of purity. Mewling, he presses into me as I slide a hand up his inner thigh. 

"Daddy…" A choked sob abandons his perfect mouth as I break the kiss. He pushes his face against my neck and whimpers. With deliberate slowness I stroke the burgeoning erection hidden by the thin pajama bottoms. 

I watch Severus' face carefully while the boy begs and pleads and writhes under my hand. He shows no emotion on the harsh planes and angles of his countenance, but the dark fires in his eyes tell me all I care to know. He is repulsed by what he sees, what I am doing to this pretty little boy who calls me 'daddy', but he is also inexorably drawn to the sight. I daresay he can quite clearly picture himself coaxing whispered screams from Harry's lovely kiss-darkened mouth. He wants to be the one sliding a hand down the boy's pants to play with the heated, turgid flesh. 

I have been tempted in the past to allow one of my followers a brief interlude with the child. Watching someone else tease and take him is something of an erotic fantasy of mine. Unfortunately for everyone involved, I am a possessive bastard—quite literally as well. 

The boy's thin hips jerk spasmodically against my moving hand. Small, perfect teeth sink into the flesh of my shoulder as he attempts to muffle his cries. The plastic eyes of the bunny dig into my chest along with his small fingers. His body arches upward, held stiff in strangely ecstatic parody of rigor mortis, and then his wet seed drenches my hand. He slumps, boneless, in my lap. Carefully I remove my hand from his pajama bottoms. He looks up at me with those brilliant green eyes, glasses askew upon his delicately feminine face. 

With obedient relish he licks clean my proffered hand. That small pink tongue dips in and out of his mouth as he reclaims his essence. Severus' dark eyes flicker between this innocent action and my face. There is no need to describe the state of my own arousal. I suspect his is most discomfiting. 

"You should go back to bed, lovely," I tell the boy lazily sucking upon my cleaned fingers. He releases the digit under his ministration and seems on the verge of objecting; no doubt he feels himself quite ready to stay up and listen to us grown ups. 

"Yes, daddy." He kisses my chin and slides off my lap. His bare feet make no sound as they hit the floor. 

"Don't forget to say goodbye to your Uncle Severus." The boy blinks at me and nods. Severus almost manages to conceal the grimace of distaste. He has never quite approved of my calling my followers 'Uncle-this-or-that' in regards to Harry, my pretty little Paris. 

*          *          *

I can taste the pulse of my heart in my mouth as the pretty boy approaches me. My master does not share him, much to the unhappiness of many of his followers, but he does seem to enjoy offering these tantalizing and twisted tastes of the child. These obscenely innocent kisses are both a privilege and a punishment, of which I have suffered many times. 

In my mind I know he is thirteen, but he looks no older than seven; he acts no older than seven. I have inquired of my lord if the boy's mind is sound. He has assured me that it is. I cannot help but doubt that as this all-too innocent creature drags a much loved gray rabbit by its tattered ear. Sometimes I even find myself doubting my lord's sanity, though I've never dared to question him on that. Such an act is suicide and I very much want to live. 

His green eyes pierce me. He's smiling with a blend of uncertainty and afterglow. His round cheeks still retain the pink of arousal. He is a sight and my lord knows this. The dark-haired devil smiles ever so slightly. 

The small hand fisted about the bunny's ear rests on my knee. It looks ethereally pale against the darkness of my slacks. He has not seen the sun often. My lord prefers to keep him indoors during the day to protect his complexion, or so he claims. The other hand is on my other knee. Without looking away he crawls onto my lap, hands digging into my flesh. Sharp knees stab into me and I restrain a flinch.

Those pink lips, reddened from my master's dark kisses, claim my mouth. Green eyes evanesce behind a screen of translucently white lids and sooty lashes. The very essence of innocence spills across me on bittersweet tides. My fingers itch to touch the smooth flesh, but that is forbidden. All I am allowed is the taste of the child's small lips against mine and the barest brush of a wet tongue at the threshold of my own mouth. This debauched angel has no right to taste of chocolate and moonlight and laughter. His moves are artless and oh-so enticing.

He pulls back and is all soft, unconcerned smiles.

"Good night, Uncle Sev'us," the boy murmurs sweetly. He destroys my name with guileless cheer. From his pink lips it sounds like 'Save Us.' If only I could…

________

O generations of men, how I

count you as equal with those who live

not at all!

~_Oedipus Rex_, Sophocles

________


	2. Daddy Dearest

Reviewers:

Cottontail, avhn, and Natalie, I am glad that you enjoyed the previous chapter. I hope that I can keep your interest. Thank you for your kind regards.

'Mes, Thank you for the kind review. I have checked out the site you recommended, and it seems perfect! Thank you very much.

MarsIsBrightTonight, Thank you and I hope to answer your questions subtly through the course of this story. However, if I fail to do that, I'll just plainly reveal everything to clear up the confusion. 

Sybil, I'm sorry for my lack of originality, but I am relieved that you liked what you read, nonetheless. I hope that this story continues to find favor with you.

Oedipean Revolution

_______

Drink my soul away

I won't cry with you

Eat my beating heart

I can't mourn now

Digest my bare conscience

I forgot what I love

Swallow my infant sanity

I dreamed it away

~Consumption, Akiko Pirscher

_______

It is darkness. Then there's a hair line crack of light and shadows. I freeze. My little heart tries to burst from my chest. The light widens and a tall shadow enters. A mad voice snakes its way into the damp crevices of my thoughts.

_"Lily/James. Sorry, so sorry. Lovely mine, so sorry. Didn't mean…Didn't want…Only wanted…."_

I grip Rabbit to my chest. I shake. Cloth rustles and footsteps come. I'm a quaking ball curled in smooth sheets. The bed shakes and dips and a large body is there. I bite Rabbit's ear and hope this isn't the Scary Man.

"My lovely." I feel light-headed with relief. It's Daddy! 

Large, warm, comforting hands pull the sheets away. Then they touch me. I feel that strange oddness that I can't help but like. Those large hands move over me. I make little happy noises.

"Such a precious thing you are, lovely."

"Yes, daddy."

And now Daddy's mouth is on mine and it seems so big. Sometimes I imagine that he could swallow me whole. But he doesn't. I think it might be fun to be swallowed. 

There! His tongue is in my mouth. It is thick and big and moist. I think it's going to suffocate me, crawl down my throat and kill me. But it doesn't. 

Daddy's warm hands and tongue and body and games frighten me, but they also make me feel safe. He protects me. Sometimes it hurts, but then the oddness comes and it doesn't really hurt.

The buttons on my pajama top are undone. I shiver when the cold air hits me. Daddy runs his hands across my chest. I can't stop my body jerking when he pinches those strange and touchable bits of flesh. It feels like a static shock, but stronger and more…odd. 

He is talking, whispering these little phrases that make me want to cry happily. He loves me. And I love him more than anything I know. 

And he's touching me in that place that is only his. The Scary Man touched me there, but he wasn't supposed to. Only Daddy is allowed to touch me there. Not me or anyone else, only him. And it's nice and odd when Daddy does, and my body is out of my control and that frightens me, but he's whispering and I know I'm safe. 

"I could eat you up, lovely." This scares me a bit. He wants to eat me? The things I eat are dead things. Does that mean he wants to…to…to kill me? Never! Daddy would never do that; he loves me, I know this. 

"Daddy!" Everything is so tight. It's so hard to breathe. I feel sick like when I had a stomach flu, but it's also nice feeling, odd feeling. His large hand is moving very fast upon…_it. I don't really understand what __it is, but when he touches _it_, I feel odd and tight and can't breathe right. I only touch it to pee-pee—which I am allowed to do—and I never make _it_ feel this way. My body jerks about and I'm making choking noises and Daddy is smiling so proudly down at me. I try to smile back._

I'm a piece of string being pulled too tight. And then I snap and it's a relief and pain and I feel that strange wetness on my thighs. I blink up at Daddy. I feel all dizzy and really happy and the odd feeling is only a sort of a hiding dream. 

But Daddy isn't done yet. He tells me so in a deep, rumbling voice. He's going to do that other thing his does. This is the other game his plays with me; one just between me and him. He never does it in front of my Uncles. And this is the game that hurts me a little, that scares me. 

I'm on my stomach and his fingers are at that little place. They touch me lightly and he tells me to relax. It's so hard, though! I don't like this as much as the other game. But I try, I really do, and a finger burns me. I can feel it and another, all slick and greasy. I squirm and Daddy laughs. 

Daddy then touches something inside that brings back that odd, nice feeling. I gasp. He touches it again and again, and I gasp again and again. And I squirm even more. And he's laughing.

"You're such an eager slut, lovely," he tells me lovingly and moves the frightening, wonderful fingers. I'm panting roughly and I feel so odd and good and everything is so many strange sparks of that wonderful odd feeling. 

And then Daddy hurts me. He doesn't mean to, I'm sure. And I squeal as I feel his _it_ in me. His is much bigger than my own, so maybe that's why _it hurts me. I can't help but think that maybe __it isn't supposed to do what he does with __it. _

But he's moving now. And I can almost feel _it in my throat and that thought is scary. I whimper and wriggle. It's like I'm being torn in two. I can't draw breath fast enough to scream. It's all fiery burning and nice oddness, and I feel like a tight bit of string again. _

His large hands grip my hips and that hurts and I know he's going to leave purple marks, but everything is so tight and all I want is that relief when the oddness becomes too much. I want to snap again.

I squirm against him and claw at the sheets. And Daddy continues to push into me and murmur loving words. I can't breathe. I can't scream. The oddness is suffocating me. It's killing me. I want to cry out to Daddy, to tell him I'm dying, but I can't speak. And I'm so scared. I don't like this game!

Daddy! Daddy!

And then I snap. Sweet relief washes over me. The nice-odd feeling weighs me down and pushes through me. I'm all wet again. Daddy makes strange noises. He's going to snap, too, soon. 

And he does. His warm wetness spurts inside me. Daddy kisses my head and says that I'm a good boy. I feel really happy, and sleepy. I yawn and he laughs. Then he takes _it_ out of me and I feel strange and empty and I'm not sure if I like that or not. 

Daddy whispers strange words and all the wetness is gone. He kisses me again, on the lips, and tucks me back beneath the covers. 

"Good night, lovely."

And he's gone. And I'm in darkness. The hall light is only a faint line of brightness at the bottom of the door.

*          *          *

Am I unique? I look at what I have accomplished, what I am, and what the future holds, and find my situation looking rather bleak. 

I find myself merely the successor of other Dark Lords and Ladies. I am the precursor of other Dark Lords and Ladies. We are so many pearls along a singular string, one right after the other. The difference between each of us is negligible. Those fighting on the side 'light' have certainly placed us in the same category. Apparently, there is a clear dichotomy, though I have yet to see it. 

The most disturbing trend among these so-called Dark magic users seems to be their inevitable end at the hands of some self-righteous 'hero'. This is not a pattern I care to repeat under any circumstances. I have done all I know how to safeguard against this undesirable outcome, yet I have the most unnerving suspicion that I have overlooked something almost too obvious. Undoubtedly, if I am to come to a sticky end, this 'overlooked something' will be the cause. 

I am a character that is easily replaced. If not I, not doubt another wizard or witch would have risen to fulfill the role as Evil. It seems as if this world exists through the conflict of its inhabitants. Each individual creature, whether plant or animal, forever battles for the right to live. Darwin was on to something with his theory of 'survival of the fittest.' Without this discord all life would lack meaning—if it has any to begin with.  Then I am merely filling a niche, as it were, and Dumbledore fills another opposite from me. Like nature, humanity abhors an empty niche and does all in its powers, unknowingly, to fill the lack. 

Society groomed me for the role I am ensconced in. Society would have created another Dark Lord/Lady. I am interchangeable…expendable.

No. 

That is the line of thinking that sentimental fools can indulge in. I have done too much to simply be another Dark Lord. 

I am _the_ Dark Lord. 

*          *          *

Would the universe exist without intelligent creatures alive to acknowledge its existence? 

A man without living friends or relatives is killed and his body is never found. No one knows he has even died. Rationally we can say that he exists, but if there is no one who knows that he does—or did since he is dead in this hypothesis—then he cannot exist, can he? I am acknowledged by others, therefore, I exist. 

I will live on in infamy.

Through history I will become immortal.

But history is in the past. The past is dead. I do not plan on dying anytime soon. I do not care for historical immortality. I will have eternity now.

*          *          *

The pretty boy sits quiescently in my lap and hugs that ridiculous stuffed rabbit. I read to him fables from an old book encased in cracking leather. A kittenish yawn rides softly above the mesmerizing crackle of aromatic logs in the fireplace. Harry's too-green eyes scrunch up and his pink lips part to reveal the dainty tongue and perfect rows of white teeth.  Relaxed and drowsy, he is about to receive a bit of unwanted news. 

"Lovely." He blinks languidly and attempts to focus his attention on me. "I'm going to have to leave you for a couple days, maybe a week." He is immediately fully awake. Eyes scan my face with puerile trepidation. 

"But, daddy, you said you weren't gonna leave me!"

"Going to," I correct him absently. I find his ingenuous distress rather endearing. "And it's only for a little while. I've arranged for one of your uncles to watch over you." 

"Who?" The child may complain and whine and plead about my absences, but only for a short while.

"Uncle Peter." His moue of displeased curiosity vanishes with blinding celerity. His skin takes on a strange, grayish hue and the entirety of his small body trembles violently. He is utterly and inexplicably terrified. Wild eyes pierce mine even as tiny hands grip my arms with surprising strength.

"Not him, daddy. He's bad!" I quirk an eyebrow. The boy has never expressed such blatant and overwhelming fear towards any of my followers before. My curiosity is piqued. 

"Why not, lovely?" A harsh blush drowns the pallor of his cheeks. Green eyes are downcast. He looks away in shame. I grip his delicate chin between thumb and forefinger and force him to look me in the eye.

"Why not?" I repeat lowly. Crystal tears clump his sooty lashes. 

"He did things…to me." A deep, possessive rage bursts violently in my stomach. My little rat has been very disobedient, apparently. 

"What 'things'?" The boy shakes his head as much as he is able in my unrelenting grip. "I promise I won't punish you, lovely, but I need to know."

"He touched me, daddy. Like you do."

"Did he?" I am rather amazed that my voice comes out with such unruffled calm.

"I…He scares me. He wanted to play your games." I shush him and rock him in my arms until the trembling ceases in his small frame. 

I have always suspected that Peter Pettigrew was, to put it crudely, a little off. Honestly, what sort of man betrays two people he loves above all rationality because he illogically believes that he can make them love him back? Of course, I am not adverse to accepting advantages when presented, and his entrance into my fold has proven quite useful upon occasion. Yet, I do not think he has truly exculpated himself for the deaths of the Potters. 

It is time for another experiment. It is time to see how deeply madness has rooted in the rat's mind. My lovely boy will not like this. It might, in fact, break him, but I am willing to risk his mind. After all, he is merely another experiment—a wholly delightful experiment to be sure, but still an experiment.

_______

Natural selection acts only by the preservation and accumulation of small inherited modifications, each profitable to the preserved being.

~Origin of Species, Charles Darwin

_______


	3. Smie for Me, Please?

Reviewers:

Maizeysugah, I am thrilled that you reviewed my story, and liked it. I absolutely adore your fics!

'Mes, Thank you for reviewing again. I shall endeavor to keep you entertained.

The Wolf of Were, I apologize for frightening you with this story. I am unclear if you've found anything positive, or redeeming about it, but I hope you did.

Lethaweapons, Thank your for your kind regards. I hope that my writing will find continued favor in your eyes.

Oedipean Revolution

_______

The path we followed wrapped upon itself as a many-coiled serpent, its course at once circuitous and labyrinthine.

~_Grandia II_

_______

Am I evil? I don't feel particularly evil, if truth be told. I am sure there are those who would gladly point the pedantic, moralistic finger and decry me as the very incarnation of everything corrupt in this world. I remain fairly certain that Dumbledore does not do this for the simple reason that he believes me led astray by the craving for power. After all, everyone seems to be redeemable in his knowing eyes. 

However, even he, slayer of my successor, Grindelwald, does not fully conceive the reason behind my pragmatic actions. The End that I seek is not Aristotle's Happiness. It is not even power or immortality, contrary to popular and erroneous belief. 

I desire evolution.

Human beings have reached evolutionary stagnation. We have defied natural selection and so have fallen from the natural order of all things. However, muggles have managed to circumvent this quandary through their technological advancements. Though their genetics remain, for the most part, constant, their ingenuity bounds forward and spawns legions of new inventions. 

This was not always the case, though. The Dark Age, as the muggles call it, saw those without magic slavishly dependent upon those with it. Then a witch or a wizard was respected, most of the times feared as well. We did not need to hide ourselves away like some dirty, unmentionable secret, the proverbial unwanted child. 

Yet, during this time, the Wizarding world was experiencing its last Golden Age. Due to the demands of the Dark Age muggles, wizard ingenuity and resourcefulness achieved levels of truly inspiring greatness that have not been seen since. New, groundbreaking spells were invented. Wizards made their dreams into reality and turned reality into dreams. It was a time of mind numbing innovation and creativity. 

And all because muggles depended upon us for solutions to their problems. Like societies dependent upon slave labor, the muggles had no need to develop their own methods of performing tasks by non-magical means. They were the ones sitting complacently in the rut of advancement. They were the ones declining through their own sloth and dependence. 

Things changed—for the worst in my humble opinion—when the great wizard Merlin, in all his unbounded wisdom, decided that muggles should seek answers with their own intelligence. They would have to rely upon their own cleverness. Slowly, yet surely they did. And the Wizarding world sat back on its collective posterior and watched the muggles with smiles of proud benevolence. 

Oh, we're so generous, so kind! Now let us sit here and marvel at our own magnanimity!

Ironically, while we were so busy congratulating ourselves, the muggles entered successive eras of technological revolutions. Non-magical innovations spilled from their working minds like a never-ending fount. And the Wizarding world continued to smile graciously and do nothing!

It still does nothing.

We have are so buried in our own generous refuse—our very sedentary existence strangling us—that we cannot move forward. The only way for us to break free of our ignorantly self-imposed chains is for there to be a great conflict. 

Evolution in the natural world is the result of stress and adaptation. An organism finds itself in a stressful environment and it adapts to overcome that which proved to be harmful. 

The greatest muggle wars brought about a wave of advancements. New weapons were developed. New medical advances helped soldiers on the battlefield. And when the wars were over, the self-same technology found practical applications during peace. 

So I shall tear this world down about us all, and I will force, through the power of my will alone if needs be, our culture, our very views, to evolve. My followers, no doubt, obey me out of the dream of power. To them power is the End. I let them think this. I am, after all, pragmatic in a way that can only be catalogued as cruel. A tool is there to be used. It is discarded when no longer useful. So too are my followers employed and abandoned. 

Even if I am defeated, though I have no intention of letting that happen, I will have revolutionized this pathetic world. Whether the 'other side' admits it or not, I am tearing them from their complacent, sedentary existence. I challenge them to greater feats of the mind. 

I am the irresistible winds of change. And none shall stand before me. 

*          *          *

"You are to watch him for the two days in which I am gone," my Lord tells me coldly. "You will make sure he eats right and attends to all hygienic matters."

"Yes, my lord." I nod my head over and over. I must please him. Angering the Master is stupid, so very, very stupid. And painful. Yes, quite, quite painful. A person might think he knows the meaning of pain, but Master's displeasure will quickly prove that everything before was heaven and everything after will never compare—until He is angered again. Fear! Fear His anger! You ungrateful, sniveling, worthless…Sorry, sorry.  Sorry!

"You are not to touch him." A million suns blaze so brightly in His dark eyes. Those eyes can see deep into me. They twist me into little pieces of used paper and sprinkle me everywhere. 

"Yes, my Lord. I understand, my Lord." I bow and scrape all to avoid the pain. Mustn't touch the child. My Lord is very, very possessive of the pretty little boy. Pretty pretty with green-green eyes, Lily's eyes. In James' face. Both their faces watching me from behind his face. 

And His eyes tunnel down into me and prod about my soft, squishy insides.

Can't touch the lovely. Touching is bad, bad, bad. Don't you dare touch that, you little—! Sorry, sorry. Sorry!

My Lord nods and is gone in all his terror. Gone. Magic. Almost like childhood. 

And I find myself all alone in His huge mansion. Shadows breed in the corners and vaulted ceiling of the entry hall. There are many dark wood doors rooted in the walls. The front doors are like two great bird's wings folded for the night. And the others lead to great secrets, or the kitchen. 

And up the sweeping staircase is the second floor, also lined with so many doors. And on the second floor, behind a door like all the others, is a hallway lined with candles. At the end of the hallway are two more doors facing each other. One is of lighter wood. The other is black. 

Stupid! Mustn't think of those doors. One is Master's, all dark and crawling like Him. The other is…

No! Not allowed. Don't have permission. He said no. He told me, quite clearly, no. Well…he said not to touch…

And I'm at the top of the staircase. The shadows are laughing and dancing and pointing. Look at him! Pathetic looser! Where are your friends now? Where are—Please don't! Sorry, sorry! Sorry!

Ah!

The first door opens without a sound. The tingle of magic passes over me with recognition. A stranger, an intruder would become so much dust, if they even made it to the front door. But not me. I'm not a stranger. I faithfully serve my Lord. I did everything he said. I even—!

Down the hallway lined with gently dying candles I creep. He said not to touch, but He never said I couldn't look. Just a little peek. A small glance. I'll be good. See? See?

Oh-so carefully I open the light wood door a crack. A thin band of light slices through the room. It falls across deep blue carpet and a bed of pale green sheets. Among the sheets a small figure is curled on one side. My stomach quivers inside its wet prison. The little pretty pretty is there. My Lord's greatest treasure. The child is precious. The child of—!

A closer look won't hurt anyone. He'll never know. Just a quick glance at that head of black hair. Across the carpet I go. And he looks the same: pale, pale skin like the petals of a white rose, lips like a bloody cupid's bow. 

The more I stare, the more I see them. Maybe…Maybe they didn't die. I didn't kill them.

And I find my hand on his cheek. How did that get there? I'm not allowed to touch, but his skin is so soft and…and since I've already done this…

"Daddy?" The child's voice rises up like a lost soul. My hand stills on his throat. I feel the little pulse beating steadily. 

Eyes like final death open, her eyes, her eyes! 

But you died! I saw you! Killed! Dead! No! You can't be here. You're dead. I killed you. Stay dead, dammit!

"Stop it, Uncle—!" That pretty little throat convulses under my hand. Small hands scrabble frantically at my arms. 

But I can't kill her again. I can't. I love her. And him, too. And they're both here, watching me out of a face of a child. I can see them there. James and Lily staring at me with such…horror? Why?

No, please don't look at me like that. Lily/James. I'm so sorry. I didn't…I just wanted…Please. Smile for me. James? Lily? Oh, lovely mine, so sorry. You aren't really gone are you? I-I just…Please. _Smile! Why won't you smile for me?_

"Stop!" 

I'm so sorry. Please, please. I didn't want to, but they/you/he/she made me. Ah, lovely lovely. Ah, pretty pretty. 

A small body wriggles against me. I grip it tighter. Somewhere a child is screaming, but I ignore it. I have my James/Lily back. Gently, lovingly I kiss his/her lips. I seek entrance with my tongue, but he/she is too shy. It doesn't matter. He/She is back. He/She didn't die. I didn't kill—!

Thin cotton rips beneath my hands and smooth young skin burns me. It tears into me and gnaws greedily upon my heart. 

James, I didn't mean for this to happen. Please, listen to me. I love you.

Lily, why don't you love me?

"Please! Uncle Peter!"

Such delicious, quivering young flesh. And they're here in this boy to redeem me, to love me. And I pay homage to them with kisses of adoration. I beg forgiveness as I lovingly, tenderly (Not so rough, you idiot!) stroke the limp length of flesh between straining thighs. Yes, they love me through the child. 

But they're not smiling. Why won't you smile, still? I love you! Isn't that enough! 

"No! Daddy!"

_Why won't you smile? Please!_

"Wormtail!"

Pain slices through me. It's my Master. I'm not supposed to touch! But I did. I did!

Such horrible pain. Everything is being shredded inside. He's crushed my soft, squishy insides with his will. He's ripping them out through the pores of my skin.

Ah! Ah! Ah!

And He killed them! I killed them! 

Ah! Ah!

Sorry! I'm so sorry! Please!

Green eyes stare into mine.

Lily…why are you crying?

James…why won't you smile?

"You have failed this test, my rat. There will be no others."

*          *          *

"Daddy!" Harry screams and then throws himself into my arms. I gather the bundle of adolescent limbs to my chest and stare down at the weeping wreck of a man. It appears his madness was further along than I had anticipated. That disconcerts me. I very rarely misjudge another. Perhaps I have been afflicted by some sort of passing delirium. 

"There, there, lovely."

"The bad man…h-he…" The child falls into a fit of incoherent sobs interspersed with violent hiccups. Tenderly I stroke his back and murmur soothing words. 

"My lord?" Severus stands in the doorway. His dark eyes flicker between the disobedient rat and myself. 

"Take him away. He has proven unfit for further use." My austere follower nods and strides into the room. 

"So sorry…Killed you…Lovely mine, so pretty. I didn't want…Just…Smile?" A quick silencing spell cuts off the wretched creature's babbling. The ensuing quiet feels like a gift from heaven. 

"I think I shall have to administer his reprimand at a later date." The elephant clock on the child's dresser announces that it is past time when I should have been at the meeting site. The ones I am negotiating with do not like to be kept waiting.

"Yes, my lord."

"You will watch over him now that Peter is indisposed."

"Yes, my lord."

" And, really, no touching."

*          *          *

_______

Choice is manifestly a voluntary act. But the two terms are not synonymous, the latter being the wider. Children and the lower animals as well as men are capable of voluntary action, but not of choice.

~_Nicomachean Ethics_, Aristotle

______


	4. Simplicity of Small Hands

To my kind reviewers:

As always first thanks must go to the first reviewer, Maizeysugah, once again you grace my works with your praise. I am thoroughly humbled. Thank you.

NiennaVala, I am most grateful that you found pleasure in my story. Thank you for your kind regards.

The Wolf of Were, I am glad that you enjoy my stories. I was, indeed, concerned that I had frightened you. Thank you for putting my mind at ease and even offering me your kind words.

'Mes, again you have reviewed. I am deeply happy that I continue to entertain you. I hope I shall be able to provide further enjoyment. 

CottonTail, ah, we share a similar sickness! I imagine that, yes, Harry would enjoy it. Now we must work around our dear potions master's own morals, ne? Thank you for your lovely review.

mcnugget, someone else, Ken Potter, rose, npetrenko, I am grateful for all of your more than generous support. I humbly request that you continue to find favor with this endeavor. I shall work hard to deserve your praise.

Lethaweapons, First, thank you for the wonderful words of kindness. Second, I do expect at least Lucius to make an appearance sometime in the future.

annuk, I accept your thrilling compliments with utmost joy. I hope that I can beg your continued favor.

avhn, the fluffy baby unicorn has become something of a succubus, ne? 

Pretty Fox Renamon, I apologize for the confusion, though I am grateful that you were able to overlook it and find redeeming value in this story. And, yes, your guess is mostly correct.

Ferality Red, thank you very much! I am glad that I was able to bring something of a reason to Voldemort. I am thrilled that you feel I accomplished the arduous task. Your praise brings me no small amount of pleasure. I am thrilled by the kindness of your review.

evelia, you have once again reviewed my work, and enjoyed it. I have not enough words, nor time, to express the depth of my gratitude for the kindness you have bestowed upon me. I beg pardon if I ever write below expectation. I shall strive my very hardest to continue to bring you entertainment. My thanks is not nearly enough, but I pray that it will suffice for now. 

From Your Sight,

Yxonomei Ayauhteotl

Oedipean Revolution

_______

Man, and in general every rational being, exists as an end in himself and not merely as a means to be arbitrarily used by this or that will.

~_Grounding for the Metaphysics of Morals_, Immanuel Kant

_______

Albus Dumbledore smiles knowingly when I ask him for a three day leave from my active duties as a professor at Hogwarts. Many a fool has underestimated the man, but not for long. Beneath the veneer of jovial senility lurks a mind without peer—except perhaps in the Voldemort. 

Albus calls me friend. Voldemort calls me servant. I am both and neither. A true friend would not betray. A true servant would not rebel. I serve two masters. I am a turncoat and coward. I am a student with two teachers—though one would claim friendship first. I have learned arduous lessons from both. One instructs me in guilt, the other in pain. And I ever so faithfully follow the syllabus. 

I decline the proffered sweet in favor of the lingering bitterness that always hangs upon me like an overly enthusiastic lover. 

Everything I have sacrificed is for my own selfishness. 

I fear the clammy hand of death.

I fear the path of my Karmic circle.

*          *          *

"Uncle Sev'us!" My reaction is immediate. I throw off sleep with the alacrity of the paranoid. Fortunately I am to battle-canny to lash out immediately. Otherwise young Harry would find himself in serious pain. 

"What is it?" I demand as my heartbeat returns to normal and the surge of adrenalin dissipates into my veins. Too-green eyes watch me curiously. The boy-child cocks his head to one side and scoots closer on the bed. 

"I'm hungry," he confides shyly. The small smile he offers should not cause such a heated reaction in my body. It should not cause the most disconcerting tightness in my sleep pants. I cover my sudden awareness of his body with an all-too ready snarl.

"You woke me up for that? Tell the house elves to fix you something."

"They won't." It is my turn to feel curiosity. My master has forbidden the child to request food?

"Once I ordered them to make me seven triple-layered chocolate cakes. I ate them all. Then I got sick all over the house. Daddy didn't like that." 

Indeed. 

"Indeed."

"So?" He's leaning closer. I attempt to give us more room, but the child will have none of that. He is determined to acquire breakfast, now. 

"Yes, yes. Give me a moment." I do not speak his name. I can never bring myself to. His green eyes are a remembrance of a dead woman, but his form is that of my school nemesis. James Potter was the sun burning all those below. His son is a forgotten ghost forever trapped on this mortal plane. 

I feel his unwavering gaze upon me as I slip out of bed and stalk towards the closet. I refuse to be intimated by a thirteen-year-old with the mind and body of a child. I pull out a few garments and enter the bathing room. I hear him bounce about my bed and hum some childish song. 

I am ashamed to admit that the temperature of my shower more closely resembles that of the southern pole than of the equatorial ring. 

I step out fully dressed and find the child sprawled out upon my bed. Thin arms and legs stretch out in a vain attempt to touch the edges of the mattress. He wears those silly silk pajamas that my master dresses him in. It doesn't appear that he has any other clothes. 

I close the door with more force than strictly necessary. The boy jumps and blinks at me with those disconcerting eyes. Then he smiles and I can almost feel sunlight pierce the thick window curtains and fill the room. Perhaps, he, too, is the sun, just like his damned father. 

I stalk over to the door. He remains on the bed amid the rumpled sheets. Curious green eyes observe me complacently beneath sooty black lashes. 

"Are you coming?"

"Yes!" With too much grace he scrambles off of the bed and lands on the floor with two thumps from each bare foot. Before I can evade him, he clasps my larger hand between his smaller ones. I have every intention of extricating myself from his hold, but then he looks up at me with naïve adoration—no, not the same as that which he directs upon my master, but still, it is enough. 

With a sigh of resignation to cover the leap of my pulse, I tug the child from the room. In the hallway he begins a one-sided conversation with me. His piping voice breathes light into the corners and haunts the ragged edges of my mind. 

The boy has no conception of right and wrong, good and evil. Perhaps he is not so much like a child, but like an animal, for animals surely exist outside of these dichotomies. They are not cruel in themselves, but become so under human morals. What we might call cruelty is merely survival for them, survival of their genes. Animals are uncomplicated; the boy is uncomplicated. 

Perhaps, then, I am less of a monster. I do not crave his tender body for the fact that he is young, gods know I am surrounded every day by the world's finest and most horrid examples of childhood. I yearn to immolate myself in his simplicity. 

*          *          *

"So what do you want?" I ask at the dining room table. He thinks over my question with more thought than is strictly necessary, in my opinion. Pink lips purse. I resist the urge to snap at him as I would with one of my delinquent students. The child wouldn't understand the reason—or forgive.

"Waffles and strawberries!" the boy announces with a delighted clap of his small hands.

"At least you are having fruit," I mutter as I summon a house elf. The pathetic creature appears with a pop and takes our orders with much bowing and scraping. I am tempted to kick the thing to make it shut up, but I fear that the boy would not appreciate such displays of irritated anger. Really, though, against whom do I rage so? The house elf is not to blame, then who?

Myself.

"What're you gonna do today?" the boy inquires between bites of fluffy brown waffle. The house elves have decided to increase the caloric count by adding fresh whipping cream. The child happily eats his breakfast. He swirls the glistening red strawberries through the cream and then eats them. Soon his pink lips are stained sanguine with their juices. 

"'Going to,'" I correct him automatically. He sticks out his tongue in retaliation and then giggles.

"So?" Persistent brat.

"I am going to watch over you as your…father has ordered me to," I inform him archly as I sip my coffee.

"That doesn't sound fun," the boy replies thoughtfully. "What do you want?"

What do I want? The same question I asked him of breakfast, yet, from his sweet mouth, the words take on a flashflood of innuendo. I restrain myself before saying, 'you,' and thereby confusing the child. I doubt he understands the full spectrum of desire. 

"Well?"

"Nothing." He cocks his head inquisitively and stares at me incredulously.

"There's nothing you want?"

"Nothing," I dissemble. 

"You are either very happy or…" He blinks owlishly and smiles. "In denial."

I manage to choke rather inelegantly upon my coffee. He watches me with a mixture of surprise and childish amusement as I clean up the spill. 

"I assure you that I'm not in denial." I am not. I lie to others, not myself. 

"And happy?" the boy persists.

"I am quite content." He shrugs and continues to eat his breakfast. I return to my own meal. He begins to hum happily as he eats. Every small swallow is followed by a low purr of approval. I find this quite distracting. He doesn't even have the decency to enjoy his food in silence. 

"Will you cease?" I growl after several minutes. He looks at me with surprise and licks his fork clean with a pointed, pink tongue. At least he has stopped humming. 

"I want to go outside," he announces wiping his mouth with a napkin.

"You can't." My master does not allow it. He prefers to keep the child indoors for his…protection. 

"Please?"

"No." He frowns at his plate and then at me.

"Just for a little while?"

"No."

"But—"

"No."

He doesn't attempt to cozen me further, much to his credit. On previous occasions he has been known to wheedle for hours on end. I wonder why he gives up so readily now. Perhaps he is up to something? No, there is no trickery in him, just the simple push of 'id'. 

"Will you read to me?" The frown of disappointment has vanished as if it never were and in its place is a hopeful smile that lights his too-green eyes. If I am not careful, I will lose myself to him, to this pure innocent. 

"Can't you read, yet?" I ask without thinking. 

"Of course I can. Daddy taught me long time ago." He bounces out of his chair and quickly circles around the table. "I like your voice," he whispers with a shy smile as he reaches for my arm. Heat flares up beneath the gentle grasp of his small hands. "Please?" Cupid's boy lips cradle the word like the sweetest invocation. I am helpless to resist.

There is no use in denying that which transcends good and evil. 

_______

We, _whose duty is wakefulness itself_, are the heirs of all the strength which the struggle against this error has fostered.

~_Beyond Good and Evil_, Friedrich Nietzsche

_______


	5. Once Upon a Time

I would like to extend my most profound gratitude to those of you who reviewed this story before it was taken off for 'exceeding the rating given.' I will think upon you with the utmost generosity of my soul. Thank you.

**romeiet**, **Maizeysugah, Yes, this story was one of many casualties in the war of the high ratings. Thankfully the repost has not been evicted with such ruthless prejudice. I am most glad to find that you like this story. Your kind support is what keeps me inspired. I am in your debt. Thank you.**

**Ambrosia-Ku-Ran aka Ken Potter**, Firstly, thank you for your continued support. I am most pleased and thankful. Secondly, I think you may be right in desiring to allow Harry peer companionship. I shall incorporate such interactions at a later date. As for Tom and Harry, I think Tom has a desire to push people to their limits. Only the strong will survive and all that. What better tool than an amoral being of pleasing proportions?

**Trinalla**, Oh, I am so happy that this story has met with your approval. I hope to continue to please. As to Harry's mental capacity, Voldemort has not actually done anything to Harry, and Harry's mind is perfectly sound. There is something else going on, but that is a secret for now. 

**RavensHaelo**, **lakuniko**, I must beg your most patient forgiveness for my lack of originality. I have no excuse adequate to exculpate myself. However, your continued favor, despite my transgressions, has lofted my spirits and filled me with hope for future efforts. All my successes shall be dedicated to you. All my failures I shall tuck away to be forgotten. 

**Gothic Raven**, I must extend the fullest and most earnest gratitude of my heart. Your timely review spurred me on to finish this. The kind words with which you buoyed my flagging spirits, brought about by ff.net's cold extirpation of this story, inspired me to make this chapter the longest of them all. I hope the length shall make up for what the quality lacks and for the long wait. Please allow me the audacity to request further favor. Your review is much appreciated.

__________

The was neither education nor progress; the generations multiplied uselessly, and as each began afresh from the same starting point, centuries rolled on as underdeveloped as the first ages; the species was already old, and man remained eternally a child.

~_A Discourse on Inequality_, Jean-Jacques Rousseau

__________

The damnable boy is determined to drive me to distraction or to an asylum. I think I would enjoy the latter right about now. All attempts to get the child to stay put in his own chair prove impossible. Even the threat of refusing to read does not dissuade him in the least. And so I find myself in a most discomfiting position. The boy refuses to move from his sprawled position across my lap. In fact he seems quite content. A sleepy tranquility inexplicably ages his face, as if a very old man hides just behind the delicate covering of skin.

I can almost taste the delicate flavor of his young flesh. I can clearly picture him naked and writhing under my pernicious ministrations. I would be just like Voldemort. I would be another to defile this ingenuous creature. 

A sharp pinch to my thigh breaks my train of thought. The boy glares his reprimand at me from behind large glasses. 

"You stopped," he tells me with annoyance. I do not bother with an apology. Instead, I merely resume the fairytale where I left off to pursue my own musings. 

The child seems to have the entire book memorized. I cannot skip a single sentence without provoking him to pinch me in rebuke. I believe my thigh is a mottled pattern of bruises. For such a slight thing he has surprising strength. 

Yet, perhaps it I who is provoking him. It seems that it is not enough to have him in lab, slender limbs and torso heating my skin with unbearable fire; I must tempt my restraint with his willing punishments. 

I take what I can of him. These small pains are mine alone, untouched by either of my masters. 

"Sev'us! If you're not going to read…" The boy huffs his exasperation in my face and takes the book from my hands. He decides to forgo the story I have been relating to him in favor of another, duly filled with flower-like princesses and heroic knights.

"Once 'pon a time there was…" His young voice swells inside my head and takes on a far deeper resonance. From somewhere beyond the veil of conscious recollection I can almost imagine my father's strong voice, a bit husky from an over indulgence of tobacco, crafting the words. 

"And the knight, who was valiant and true…"

Children live in a world of strict morality shaped by adults. They see black and they see white. The gray is something they cannot grasp. For them life is knights and dragons, heroes and bad guys. So how is it that this child, full of all the innocence and purity that other children only posses when in the womb, live in the shades of gray and be blind to black and white?

"Then the demon king said…"

And how is this even possibly when he lives with the most pragmatic and cruel masters of this era? How can it be possible when his young body is violated by the man he calls, 'Daddy'?

He is the most fantastic experiment of them all.

*          *          *

I miss Daddy. I always miss him when he's not here. I miss his large hands and his games. My uncles aren't as good. They can't do Daddy things because Daddy doesn't like that. I'm only for him, he says. I'm his lovely. 

Of them all, I think I like Uncle Sev'us the best. He's got a nice voice. It's all tingly like warm water and it's like the taste of chocolate, except for the ears. He also has a scent. It reminds me of stone and earth, but with something sharper mixed in. Daddy told me that he makes potions. Maybe he smells like his potions? I've never had any so I don't know.

Uncle Sev'us is also nicer, in a way. He is nice naturally and not because I'm Daddy's. I don't think Uncle Sev'us knows he's nice. I don't think he'd like me to tell him that. But he is! He's also sad. I don't know why. He says he's not, but I don't believe him. Why else would he frown so?

Uncle Lucius smiles a lot, but his eyes don't. They stay hard like rocks, shiny and silver. There's no softness in him. Sometimes I think he is all hollow and dark. He is nice to me, but he isn't. He is hungry all the time, but not for food. I think he would eat the world if he could. 

Auntie Bella is scary! She always smells like metal and smoke and her eyes are full of fire. I don't like it when she takes care of me. She laughs too much and too loudly. Her hugs are too tight and her smiles are too wide. And she always talks about Daddy in this voice that is hungry in a way different from Uncle Lucius. She wants to eat Daddy, I think. 

There are others, Uncle Walden, Uncle Rod' (he is married to Auntie Bella), and Uncle An'in. But Daddy doesn't bring them home as often. I don't like them that much, but they're all much better than Uncle Peter. He's scary in a way that Auntie Bella isn't. He wants to eat me. But Daddy made him go away forever. So that's good. 

*          *          *

I am not the boy's father; his father was killed by Voldemort's hand. Yet I have the most peculiar protective instinct. I know this response is simply chemical, and that is the rational part of me. However, I not only want to shelter him, I want to ravish him. I would devour him and keep him caged in my ribs. 

These feelings are disturbing to say the least. 

"I don't want to take a bath," he announces loudly. A sigh scrapes past my lips. The child is being inordinately obstinate again. 

"Your…father has ordered that you bathe everyday," I remind him—or more like snarl. 

"But it's not any fun without him." I freeze, my breath stops in my lungs. 'Without _him_'? As in, the child and my master bathing together? I really shouldn't be surprised—and I'm not. It is the imagery that assails my mind that lays me low: pale limbs dripping water, rivulets of it streaming down a young back. It is far too decadent, too lascivious to contemplate. 

I am a monster. I am no better than Wormtail. At least he has madness for an alibi. 

"I'm not going, and you can't make me." Slender arms cross with outrageous defiance. Too-green eyes flash behind ridiculous glasses. 

Many a man has drowned inside his own turmoil and internecine desires. That is a rather fitting metaphor, actually. 

The all too real problem is that, contrary to the child's petulant declaration, I can force him. I am the adult and my word is law, to be obeyed inevitably if not instantly. He is so small, so childlike that it would be no great task to force his complicity through physical means. How easily I could overpower the boy…

"You have no choice." The words leave my lips before my mind can censor them. Who am I to force the blades of truth into his thin chest? Choice is the illusion given by those in power to placate the ones under them. I know this as intimately as anyone can. When a master tells a subservient individual that he has a choice, it must be translated into the individual not having any, only the capriciousness of the master.

Looking at his upturned face, too-green eyes sparking puerile defiance, I am the one in power this time. I am the one who can withhold his desires from coming to fruition. I can deny him his own will to action. This knowledge is a rush of intoxicating chemicals in my brain. The absolute control I have over him, this amoral creature of inexplicable simplicity, at this moment is nothing like the power I hold over my students—pathetic excuses for such a title they are. 

I inspire fear and hatred in their shallow little hearts, but that is for the greater purpose. I disabuse them of the notion that they are immortal; such thoughts lead to as many accidents and fatalities as plain, old fashioned incompetence. I will not allow such pretensions in my classroom, but that is as far as my power extends. Once they step out the door, muttering at the unfairness of my cutting remarks, they are out of my jurisdiction. I may take house points and doll out detentions, but these mean nothing in the larger picture. They shall forget in due time. 

The power I have over the child is far different. I am the sole adult right now. I am the protector, the guardian and the overseer. I have never before been charged with safekeeping him for more than a few hours at a time; this is due to the restrictions placed upon me by my current occupation. His entire well being is dependent upon me. And this dependence is not transient. It shall remain until I am removed from duty by Voldemort's return. 

For right now he is mine. 

Mine…

However, I, too, am in the power of another. I hold the child's life in my sullied hands and mine is clutched in the hands of two masters, both cruel in their own way. He is mine only insofar as the constraints of my guardianship allow. 

"I don't want to." The child has the audacity to stick out his pointed pink tongue at me upon repeating his statement. No one has done that to me since I was a child myself. 

The little brat!

*          *          *

Uncle Sev'us suddenly goes all stiff and quiet. His face is smooth and blank, but I can see thoughts moving in his eyes. Then he suddenly catches me around the middle and tosses me over his shoulder. The air whooshes from my lungs. I cry out in pain. 

"W-What are you doing?" I cry wiggling about. A strong arm locks about my kicking legs. This is scary but kind of fun. Nobody's every carried me this way before. Daddy carries me in his arms…he's pretty much the only person who has carried me, now that I think about it. Daddy doesn't like other people touching me without permission. Goodnight kisses are okay, and sometimes hello kisses as well. 

Touching is special. Touching is something only Daddies are supposed to do. But what about uncles? Uncle Peter wasn't supposed to, but he did. He was bad, but he's gone now. Uncle Sev'us is carrying me, but that's not the same as Uncle Peter.

He wants me to take a bath because Daddy said I had to. I hate baths. All that water is frightening. I'm afraid I'll breathe it in. I did that once. It hurt so bad! But Daddy came and saved me. He pulled the water out and made everything better. Ever since then I've hated taking baths. They're no fun without Daddy there to make sure I don't breathe in the water. 

Uncle Sev'us is completely silent. I can only hear his measured breaths. I don't like it when he's silent. I wasn't lying when I said that I liked his voice. It's like water you can breathe, all warm and liquid. It covers me and I feel all warm. 

Up the stairs we go. I'm bobbing up and down on his sharp shoulder. I know he's taking me to the bathroom. He's going to make me take a bath! I don't want to! No fair! Just because he's bigger than me doesn't mean he can make me. 

"I don't want to take one!" I tell Uncle Sev'us again. Can't he tell I don't want to? How many times do I have to tell him? Auntie Bella tells me she'll break my arms if I don't obey, and so does Uncle Rod' (he just copies Auntie Bella). I think she would too. Her eyes tell me it's true, and Uncle Rod' would do it because she would. He usually does what she says. Daddy says he's 'whipped.' I don't know what that means, but it sounds sad. Uncle Peter used to give me baths…I didn't like them. He always wanted to wash me himself. 

My other uncles have never taken care of me for longer than a couple of hours. So no baths with them! 

Baths with Daddy are the best of all! He sometimes plays his games with me, but they're so much more different in water. He washes me himself even though I'm a big boy and can do it myself. He says it's his privilege as my Daddy. Daddies do that sort of thing he says. 

Uncle Sev'us takes long strides down the hallway. Every footfall bounces me against his shoulder. It hurts! I'm going to be all bruised! I tell him to put me down, but he doesn't seem to hear me. Or at least he doesn't answer. This makes me mad. I don't like being ignored. 

He shoulders my bedroom door open and then he heads straight for the bathroom! That door opens, too. With a wave of his wand (Daddy won't let me have one; he's says they're only for adults) the big tub fills with colored water. Daddy made it so the water was rainbow colored, but the color wouldn't stain. I think it would be fun to be all rainbow colored. Daddy doesn't seem to agree.

"W-Wait!"

Uncle Sev'us doesn't wait! He tosses me in! Clothes and all. The warm water closes over my head. On no. Please no. I open my mouth and water rushes in. 

Daddy! 

Daddy!

*          *          *

I stare at the churning, colored water for a second before realizing that the child has no instincts of self-preservation!

Of all the…One would think someone would have taught him how to swim.

I reach into the frothing water and haul the boy out by whatever part I have managed to grasp. Dripping chromatic waters, the boy turns frightened green eyes to me. The ridiculous glasses have fallen off and no doubt lurk somewhere on the bottom of the slick porcelain. He coughs and clings to my arm. 

"Daddy?" His young voice is high and panicked. Myopically he squints at me. 

"No." Now I understand his dislike for baths. Drowning is a most unpleasant experience. 

"Uncle Sev'us?" Small fingers dig into my flesh. I heave a sigh and summon the wayward spectacles. They burst from the water and shower me with warm droplets (orange and blue, how lovely). With more gentleness than is in my character, I place them on his face. He blinks quizzically and then smiles hesitantly. 

"Thank you." I grunt in reply and tell him to take his clothes off. My gods, the images that commands inspires are not to be thought, especially by me towards this child, the son of my hated adversary. 

Silk pajamas, ruined beyond salvation by any means, magical or otherwise, peel away from sun-denied skin. He is unselfconscious, and no doubt would forgo the effort of dressing if Voldemort hadn't quite sternly ordered him to hide his slender form. The noise the cloth makes as it leaves his skin has a distinctly moist quality. Silk is the only fabric that can truly capture the essence of human flesh, whether rent or caressed. 

"You won't let me fall again, will you?" I look over as he drops the pajama top over the side. His too-green eyes are earnest and just a touch apprehensive. The shirt lands on the ground with a wet smack. He bends down and begins to remove his pants. He is all moonstone skin and inky hair. He seems untouched, pure, and yet he cannot be so. A monster has desecrated his temple of flesh and bone. He is a broken idol clinging to divinity no longer deserved. 

Or perhaps that is me. 

"I won't let you fall," I reply softly. Oh, but I have let him fall. He falls every time my lord touches him. I allow this perversion just as much as I incite my own. Who holds more guilt, the man who commits the crime or the man who allows it to continue unchallenged?

Guilt…guilty.

"Good." The pants land near the top. Colored water creeps stealthily across the floor. "Tell me a story."

"What?"

"Daddy tells me stories when I get all clean." He proceeds to soap up a washcloth with practiced dexterity. Slowly, meticulously he drags the soaped terry cloth over his arms. Pale suds, somehow immune to the coloring of the water, leave patterns of lace across his skin. I watch, mesmerized, as the cloth is drawn over his small shoulder and across he arched neck. Then it travels down, tracing across delicately prominent collarbones and rubbing blushing nipples to peaks. 

"Well?" 

Inexplicably I find myself towering over him beside the tub. I must have traversed the few steps unconsciously, drawn to his pale skin and the slick slide of soap and cloth. He watches me with mild curiosity and expectation. 

It is wrong to be envious of an inanimate object, but what I wouldn't give to be that washcloth. 

"Once upon a time…" I begin softly as the clean light glistens on the damp planes of the child's body. 

Once upon a time always ends with happily ever after.

__________

Life itself is the _will to power_. 

~_Beyond Good and Evil, _Friedrich Nietzsche

__________


End file.
